


Demons

by Cuptivate



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Bliss, Dwalin Is A Softie, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Erebor is still a Kingdom, F/M, Family Feels, Family Secrets, Happy Ending, Love, One-Shot, Romance, Thorin Balin Nori are only mentioned, Thrain is not nice, Thror is not nice, not sure I'd get along with Dis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 19:53:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15848244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cuptivate/pseuds/Cuptivate
Summary: Set in the modern world, Erebor is an Absolute Monarchy ruled by males. And while Dwalin is very much male, he is also a softie. A softie with scars, who has learned to build up his walls to protect himself. Until he met Bilbo.





	Demons

**Author's Note:**

> Ok, this was written after looking over Durin family trees (again) and feeling very peeved about the fact that we do not know names or background information of the females: mums, daughters, sisters, aunties. I concluded that - even though dwarrow are very secretive, especially regarding their dams - Khazâd could very well be considered a machonistic, patriarchal society, where women have no say, have no rights, have no purpose other than bearing children. That is the backbone of this one-shot. I hope you enjoy xx

Every time he caught his reflection he saw himself smiling. He’d never been much of a smiler but these days he seemed to be doing it all the time.

He also had smashed avo on sourdough with a nice, crispy piece of bacon and a poached egg for second brekkie, washed down with a green concoction of something or another. He didn’t really care, it tasted quite nice, and Bilbo had ordered it for him.

When they strolled through the monthly artist and artisan market he sniffed scented candles and admired macramé wall hangings and succulents in concrete pots and resin bangles.

He also bought Bilbo a bunch of miniature sunflowers.

Because.

She held them as if he had given her the greatest treasure on earth and smiled up at him as if he’d hung the moon.

That morning he’d nearly drowned in the shower when he was on his knees and eating her out, the hot water turned on fully to soothe their muscles, sore from the night’s activities, not that the hard tiles helped his knees.

But it didn’t matter. These days very little mattered to him, but Bilbo.

They had stumbled into each other’s paths, both trying to live with the memory of a past they’d rather forget, but both quite unable to do so. They never spoke of what demons haunted them, though. Those demons had no place in their lives now.

What he knew of Bilbo was that the tiny woman with the emerald green eyes had a friendly, bubbly and outgoing personality, that she was personable and kind, even though she kept her walls up, obviously cautious thanks to past hurts. Dwalin knew that the only time she let all those carefully constructed walls down was when she was around children, and while she was very well spoken and intelligent her vocabulary consisted mainly of adjectives like ‘faster’, ‘harder’, ‘deeper’ when they had sex. He knew that she was afraid of thunderstorms and large dogs, that she heartily disliked pickles and black licorice and that the sound of sirens had her in a near panic attack. And because she was smart and good at reading people he had no doubt that she had drawn up her own little file about him in her head.

The first time he saw her while out running in the local park, when she was dressed as a fairy and lead a group of children on a merry dance, leaving a trail of flower petals and soapy bubbles. The second time he saw her she served him breakfast at the little corner cafe. He wouldn’t have recognized her, what with the fairy wings missing and her face free of paint and glitter, if not for her gorgeous honey curled locks. Dwalin was rather partial to beautiful hair, and curls at that, and Bilbo’s hair highly qualified in both regards.

They didn’t exchange words past ‘beautiful day’ and ‘have a good one’, ‘enjoy the rest of your afternoon’ for weeks; Dwalin had no intentions of getting involved with anyone, the family dramas from Erebor still too raw and painful in his memory, even after over six years away, and Bilbo didn’t seem to quite like to want to close the distance as well.

But when they kept bumping into each other in the neighbourhood, at the shops, at local fundraisers, it did happen eventually that they hooked up, somehow drawn to each other. They ended up making out at the park one day and met for coffee the next, grabbed lunch the week after. Then a movie, then dinner, and when he brought her home she asked him if he wanted to come upstairs.

And aye, after weeks of an almost constant erection, no matter how much he took things in his own hand, he didn’t have the stamina anymore to _not_ get involved with anyone, and he very much wanted to get involved with Bilbo.

He learned that night that Bilbo, the woman who was so petite that one could assume she was rather fragile was anything but delicate. Sex with her was a revelation, taking and giving happened in equal measure, and she was rather voracious – not that he did mind. While deep conversation was not a part of their relationship, sex – lots of it – and companionship certainly were. And over time he learned that she was a truly genuine person. She meant what she said and she always ever only assumed the best of people. Her outlook on life was one of utter positivity and joy.

He had never met a character like her, but, gods, did she do him good.

The man that had been moulded by an uptight and cold life in Erebor until he himself became harsh, indifferent and grim was gone, and Dwalin was glad about it: he liked the man he was now much better.

Eventually he barely returned to the drab motel room he had rented for the better part of a year and a half, after drifting aimlessly for years, living off odd-jobs and in harrowing loneliness and solitude. Instead, more and more of his few belongings ended up at her place. The pungent fish smell from his early morning shift at the local fish markets disappeared under the wild berry body wash she had in her shower and he lived for free Dwalin allowed no argument when he paid for their food, whether they ate out or at home.

Occasionally they both were plagued by sleepless nights and dark memories, although it happened less and less since they lived together. They learned to recognize it in the other before it spiraled out of control, and knew how to be proactive in keeping the shadows at bay: long walks, wordless embraces and closeness seemed to do the trick.

Dwalin’s diet improved, gone were the days of either steak burgers or nothing; over the years his appetite had all but disappeared into the gaping hole in his heart, where once love and hope used to live. Now he gladly let Bilbo feed him veggie burgers, crunchy little salads and bites of fresh fruit. She took care of him in a way nobody had ever taken care of him, save maybe his mother when he was very young, long before things went sour in Erebor.

In turn he showered her with caresses and little gifts, like the sunflowers; small gestures to show his appreciation, but the way she received them every time was pure joy. A far cry from any woman he had known back in Erebor, including Dis; the princess very much raised in the belief that only an expensive gift was a good gift.

Once they had returned back home Dwalin watched Bilbo skillfully arranging the sunflowers into a vase. She didn’t notice him standing on the other side of the room and observing her across the kitchen counter. Bilbo smiled softly and gave the bright yellow blooms a little pat; a sweet and happy gesture. She must have felt his gaze then, because she looked up and when their eyes met she blushed prettily.

At that moment there was knock at the door.

“I’ll get it,” he said, feeling a fond grin curling the corners of his mouth.

He didn’t bother checking the spy hole because the neighbourhood was a good one and nobody in his right mind would bother someone of his stature and built in an unsavoury way. Instead Dwalin just opened the door, half expecting one of the neighbours - who were all friends with Bilbo, of course, likely to come for a cup of tea or to borrow something.

Shock froze him on the spot, however, when it was no neighbour but a man he hadn’t seen in years and not allowed himself to think of in almost as long, a name he had cursed to the heavens plenty of times before that.

“So this is where you’ve been hiding all this time,” mighty Fundin growled out as he barged past his youngest son and into the apartment like he owned the place.

Dwalin blinked a few times and eventually managed to close the door. He turned towards his father with a scowl; Fundin was walking through Bilbo’s apartment slowly, as if conducting an inspection, touching a few books and photographs, peeking into the small bathroom and the bedroom, making a grimace at the latter.

Bilbo stood frozen behind the kitchen isle, her eyes darting between the stranger in her apartment and Dwalin, but she didn’t say anything.

Fundin ignored her, of course, and went to the armchair, shoving the basket with Bilbo’s knitting to the side with one foot, lifting the soft blanket that lay there, neatly folded, and carelessly tossed it aside. Then he took a seat.

“Have you lost your manhood that you live in a place like this?” he asked as he eyed the checkered felt slippers under the coffee table with disgust. Bilbo had made them for Dwalin, and although he’d never worn slippers before in his life, he wore those with pride every day. “Have you forgotten your heritage?” His father’s tone was snide and underhanded. N _othing has changed._

Dwalin finally managed to make his feet carry him over to the armchair. He glared down at Fundin. “What do you want?”

Fundin looked up at him, his gaze all calculating and assessing. He had always been a bear of a man, tall and imposing in stature, with broad shoulders and a bulky appearance - very much where Dwalin inherited his physique from. Fundin’s grey eyes were piercing and left no doubt that their owner had a mind as sharp as an axe. But the years since they had seen each other last had not been kind to him: his hair was grey and seemed thin, his skin grey and sallow, and there were dark shadows under his eyes that were more than just a sign of a few sleepless nights. Age, it seemed, had finally caught up with mighty Fundin. _And his rotten character._

“Sit.” It was an order, but Dwalin was long done taking orders from anyone in Erebor, including his father. He folded his arms in defiance and deepened his scowl.

Fundin snorted. “Fine, have it your way. I have come to tell you to stop this childish behaviour of yours and return back home. I’ve let you be for the past six years. But now you are needed. You are expected.”

Dwalin had made sure to live under the radar. No credit cards, no contracts, no insurance, and he never touched his money that sat safely in the accounts of several banks. Not that it mattered. He knew if they wanted to find him they would always be able to do so. And while Dwalin didn’t actively seek out the latest news about the Kingdom of Erebor he was not blind to the few tidbits that were reported in this part of the world: about an immensely rich King whose mind was clouded more times than not, resulting in confusing and conflicting orders, yet he happily mingled with the lower classes, as long as there was drink. But even those encounters seemed to end in volatile chaos more often than not. He heard about a spineless crown prince who had few public roles and never seemed to smile, lacking both compassion and political sensibility. And he heard about the King’s three grandchildren, although at that point Dwalin usually changed the channel.

Bilbo stepped out from the kitchen. “Good afternoon,” she said, looking at Fundin, a tentative smile on her lips.

“Here,” Barely glancing at her Fundin reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a roll of money. He pulled out a wad of notes and held it out to Bilbo. “Take that and buy yourself something nice.”

She stared at him incredulously. Then she folded her arms, standing defiant, much like Dwalin. “I don’t think so,” she said firmly, “What do you take me for?”

“I’d rather not say,” Fundin waved the money at her. “Take it. Be gone. This conversation is not on a level that you can keep up.”

While Bilbo gaped, aghast, Dwalin interfered. “Put your money away. Bilbo stays. Nothing you have to say to me cannot be said in front of her as well. This is her apartment after all.”

It was Fundin’s turn to stare and Dwalin wondered if he actually had bothered to read the report about Dwalin he undoubtedly received. “Her apartment?” Fundin threw his head back and bellowed a laugh, but without humour. “Well, son, you truly have lost your balls if you let a woman hold you over.”

Dwalin ground his teeth, not bothering to comment. “Why are you here?”

Fundin grunted. “Why are _you_ here? And not in Erebor? Your family is there. Your brother. Your best friend. Or do you not consider Thorin your best friend anymore? There was a time you two were inseparable.”

With a scoff Dwalin unfolded his arms and sat on the couch. “Sure. Remind me, was that before or after he had me promise to marry his sister, to get her out of that hellhole called home, only to sit in silence when she was married off to someone else?”

Thorin had all but begged him to make Dis his wife, to get her away from Thror, and from Thrain, those callous, cold, old men. It would not have been a hardship. He had loved her for half a lifetime, since they were children, really. She had held him when he cried and raged at his mother’s death. She was the first girl he he kissed, the first woman in his arms and the first in his bed. There were no secrets between them, she knew his greatest fears and he knew hers - or so he had thought.

Dwalin could feel Bilbo’s eyes on him, but he ignored her. His demons. Now she knew part of them.

Fundin made a dismissive gesture. “Dis knows how to keep her family’s honour. That marriage was important for the house of Durin. She knew her place, without Thror having to remind her of it.”

“You mean like you continuously reminded Mother of her place?” Dwalin’s hands clenched. His mother had been a kind, warm woman, but her spirit had been all but crushed by the hard, loveless man she had been married to, and by the hard men her husband worked for. She was nothing but a shell of herself in the end, a broken woman, fragile, frail, sad.

Fundin narrowed his eyes. “Your mother was sick and it was for her own good that she went to a place where she was well cared for.”

“She could have gotten that care at home,” Dwalin ground out, “It’s not like you were lacking the funds to hire all the help in the world. And she would have been with us. She needed us.” _Please, please don’t take me away from my sons_. His mother’s pleading cries were one of his worst memories, and the view of her being all but dragged out of the room by men in white coats. The next time he saw her was in the clinic, when she sat in a chair by the window. She did not move, she did not speak, she did not even react to his presence.

“You were a child,” Fundin said after a long pause, “You have no knowledge of the true nature of her issues. She was a feeble, delicate woman, and her condition only deteriorated over the years. She needed-“

“Her sons,” Dwalin growled, “She needed her sons. She was a happy woman, who loved music and art and her roses. She was perfectly fine when _you_ were not around. Both her demise and her death are on your conscience. Oh, wait,” he added in a mocking tone, “You don’t have a conscience! I am asking again: why are you here?”

Fundin scowled. “I don’t care what you think of me. I don’t care whether you agree with the choices I’ve  made. But you will return home with me. You are needed. It is your duty.”

Dwalin hummed. “Erebor is not my home any more. It hasn’t been for a very long time. And no, I have no intention of going back, and certainly not with you. And I have done my duty, as you are well aware.” Fundin sat on the King’s Council and was his military advisor: he knew all the dirty little details of the crown’s escapades into Gundabad. Oh, aye, Dwalin had done his duty, followed his orders and kept his mouth shut.

They glared at each other, the past an uncrossable chasm between them.

“Dis has two children now. Two sons,” Fundin said after a long pause.

Dwalin heard the words and tried to figure out how he felt. Their marriage had seemed a done deal. Thrain had never objected to their relationship, neither had Fundin, nor Thror. Of course, they were very young, and Dwalin was sent overseas, first to tend to military matters, then on diplomatic missions. All for the greater good of the Kingdom of Erebor, just like every other young man in the Durin household, same as Balin, Thorin and Frerin. Dwalin followed his King’s orders without question, of course. After all, if he was to marry the princess of Erebor he’d better be as polished in the diplomatic circles as he was in military ones. They kept in contact, Dis and him, texted, spoke and saw each other online almost daily. All seemed well, although in hindsight - and only after meeting Bilbo - Dwalin had to admit that Dis had begun to get on his nerves. He had seen the world and gotten to know and see its many problems. And he had seen Erebor from the outside: a Kingdom with many flaws and on a slow downward spiral. In contrast Dis seemed to become more spoiled and superficial. But how could he hold it against her for being the way she was when all she did was living in a golden cage? When he finally was called back home he was convinced it was only going to be a matter of time before that feeling of closeness and affection would blossom between them again. But then her grandfather announced at one family dinner that Dis was to marry the son of a business partner, to facilitate a merger of a different kind.

Thror didn’t care that Dwalin sat _right there_ , at the table.

And Dis had said nothing. Had not protested, had not argued. When he stared at her, aghast, she had lowered her eyes.

Thrain said nothing. Fundin said _nothing_. Thorin said nothing. Balin said nothing.

Dwalin had left Erebor that night.

With a pang of melancholy he realized that he didn’t care as much as he thought he would at the news that Dis had two sons from the stranger she married without complaint.

“She is also a widow now,” Fundin continued, “her husband died a year ago in a car crash.”

 _Well_.

“I’m sure she’d be happy to take you back.”

At that Dwalin let out a bark of laughter. _She_ would take him back. That was rich. As if _he_ was the one that had given up on their relationship with not even so much as a regretful blink of an eye.

“I’m sure she would,” he said with a mirthless chuckle before turning serious and looking calmly at his father. “But I would not take her back. For the longest time Dis has been nothing more than a fond memory.”

“You’re telling me you found something better?” Fundin snorted and jerked his head towards Bilbo, who still stood in the middle of the room, an expression of forlorn hurt and confusion and dawning apprehension on her face. “Something better than a Durin? A princess of Erebor?”

“The Durins are not quite as special as most of them belief. And a lot of people are better than them, Bilbo included. You’d know this if you’d deflate your ego just a little and get out more into the real world,” Dwalin replied in a calm he didn’t feel. Bilbo’s eyes had gone round at Fundin’s last comment. Her hands clenched and unclenched at her side and her shoulders were drawn up and tense, her plush lips pressed in a thin, wary line.

He didn’t like it.

He wanted her happy and relaxed and smiling.

Getting to his feet he looked hard at Fundin. “Your visit is over. Remove yourself, or I will.” He wouldn’t hesitate to use force.

Fundin must have seen that in his eyes as he studied him momentarily, because he stood without a word and left.

The door fell shut and the room rung with silence.

Bilbo said nothing and Dwalin suddenly felt his throat close up like he was choking, waves of emotion surging higher and higher until he had trouble breathing. He began pacing before he realized it, scrubbing his hands over his head and face in agitation.

 _How dare Fundin come here?_ Come _here_ and bring all the toxic shit with him? _How dare he come here and speak like that to Bilbo?_

Suddenly Dwalin felt angry like he hadn’t in a long time. The anger burned so bright, it was as if he could bring the very air to sizzle. With a bellow he punched his fist against the sturdy doorframe to the bathroom, a small voice in the back of his head reminding him not to make holes in Bilbo’s walls. He heard the smack and crack of his knuckles against the wood and Bilbo’s sharp inhale and felt the pain racing up his arm even though it was nothing compared to the pain of the turmoil inside him. Knowing he needed to get out before his emotions got the better of him Dwalin grabbed his phone and wallet without a word and left the apartment, slamming the door shut behind him.

He stormed down the stairs in a haze and nearly ran into Fundin, who made the very bad judgement call to step into his path. Before he knew what he was doing he grabbed his father by the lapels of his expensive suit and slammed him into the wall. Getting right into his face he ground out between clenched teeth: “You have no idea how much I want to use you as a punching bag right now. The blood that connects us is the only reason that I don’t.” He shook him, noting surprised that he was _taller_ and _stronger_ than mighty Fundin. And as Fundin stared into his younger son’s stormy eyes there was a glimmer of fear and trepidation in the depths of the pale grey. Dwalin saw it with satisfaction and grunted, shaking him again. “Nori found me?”

Fundin gave a nod.

“Does the King know?”

“No. Neither does Thrain. Thorin and Balin continue to make sure that your name remains forgotten by them, by all.”

“Good.” Dwalin felt warmth stir in his stomach at that. “Give them my thanks. Now go. I do not want to see you again. _Ever_. I do not want to hear from you again. Ever. I will only _consider_ returning to Erebor once you, Thrain and Thror are buried and have turned to dust.” He yanked him close so their noses touched and narrowed his eyes threateningly. “And you will never, ever again speak to Bilbo, speak about Bilbo, speak to anybody she knows or has ever met or is likely going to know or meet in her life. You will not interact with her in any shape, way or form and you will not instruct others to do so in your stead. You will not think about her, you will not breathe the same air as her and you will not walk the same ground. Otherwise I will end you before you even see me coming, blood or no.”

It was no empty threat and Fundin knew his younger son was well capable of seeing it through; his training had been most thorough after all.

Fundin stared at Dwalin with wide eyes and a flicker of shame and faint admiration ghosted over his face before he lowered his gaze and gave a nod, his mouth opening to speak. Dwalin shook him again. “I do not want to hear it. Now get out of my face.” And he let go of his jacket and gave him a shove towards the door. With a stumble Fundin reached for the wall to steady himself.

Suddenly he looked like an old man.

Nothing more.

No more might. All fight and cocky arrogance gone. Only an old man, deflated and tired of life.

They exchanged one last look, grim versus world-wary, and Fundin left.

Dwalin waited until the door fell shut before turning on his heels and walking out the back. He walked for hours, at a brisk pace and without pausing, counting his steps to not let the thoughts run wild in his head and to keep the walls of indifference and insensitivity as rubble and down where they belonged. He walked until it was dark and the anger slowly drained away, and fatigue set in.

Then he slowed his steps and returned to Bilbo’s apartment.

It was dark save the small mood light in the living area.

Bilbo was nowhere to be seen.

Dwalin threw his phone and wallet on the kitchen counter and slowly walked into the bedroom.

There she was.

She sat on the floor next to the large window, her arms hugging her drawn up knees, her head leaning against the wall. She was staring out over the night lights of town and didn’t turn to look at him. With a sigh he slid down next to her. He wasn’t sure what to say. With a pang he realized that she might ask him to leave. She might not want this kind of drama in her life. It was a possibility. It filled his heart with a bone deep sadness he hadn’t known he could feel. He probably should explain to her about Erebor and the toxic, cold life there. He should explain to her about Dis. Maybe she would understand the why’s of his running off before as he did, leaving her to deal with the aftermath of Fundin’s visit on her own. But maybe she didn’t want to hear about all these things.

And anyway, he didn’t know how to begin.

The silence between them stretched and stretched while he was wracking his brains about what to do and what words to choose (fuck all that diplomatic training, it never shaped him into a wordsmith), all while trying to contain the nervous thumping of his heart.

Bilbo startled him from his thoughts when she suddenly moved and climbed into his lap, laying her head against his shoulder in a familiar, trusting manner. He wrapped his arms around her and held her. After a long while her small hand began smoothing non-existent wrinkles on his shirt and rubbing circles on his chest. It was an absentminded gesture, but he took it as a good sign. There was comfort in her touch. And wasn’t this how they had comforted each other during their darker nights? With touch and caresses and closeness. Burying his large hand into her thick hair and cupping the back of her head he pulled gently so her face tilted up to look at him.

Their eyes met and in the dim light he noted with relief that hers were not red and swollen, meaning she had not been crying. He would have hated to be the reason for her to cry. He closed the space between them and kissed her and his heart surged with hope when she _let_ him and even kissed him back. They kissed slowly, carefully. Savouring every soft press of their lips, every touch of their tongues.

So familiar. So soothing. So _good_.

When they ended up on the bed their love making continued just the same: slow and careful. Tender.

There was no ‘ _faster_ ’ ‘ _deeper_ ’ ‘ _harder_ ’ this time.

There was no roaring release this time either.

Even though Dwalin would never have thought it possible, this time it was much more. When she cried out and clenched around him and her heat gripped his cock tight and milked him her fingers did not dig into the muscles on his back for once but instead her hands reached for his face to caress it. She kissed his closed eyes and his forehead while he came with a spine shattering climax that had him see whole supernovas and not just white light and stars.

When he returned to his senses enough to be able to look at her he noticed with a start the streaks of tears from the corner of her eyes, down into the thick locks at her temples. Startled, he gently brushed them away with his lips. It occurred to him then that he had it wrong: she did not want him to leave but she was preparing herself for _him to leave her_ and that she thought this was good-bye sex.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest at the realization.

And suddenly the words came easily: “Bilbo Baggins, in all my fucked up life I have not found anywhere in the whole world I would rather be than inside you, and in your arms, and in your bed, and in your life. If you’ll have me. I love you.”

She chocked on a sob then, but the smile she gave him was radiant. He cupped her face and kissed more tears away before they dripped into her hair, and he just reached her lips when she whispered “I love you, too, Dwalin”.

When he softened enough to slip out of her he rolled to his side and took her with him, gathering her into his arms. They held each other and fell asleep like that, for once she was not his little spoon but her face was pressed into his chest and her hand rested on his heart.

It was time to face their demons, Dwalin knew. They would spend the next few days and weeks and _months_ to lay them bare and dissect the hurt they caused, likely over walks and plenty of macchiatos or affogatos or tea, either down at the park or at the beach or even at home, complete with handholding and careful hugs and gentle caresses when those damnable demons would be fighting back. They’d get takeaway and have middle-of-the-night sex that would be slow and careful and _healing_. But they would bare their souls to each other just as they already had bared their hearts, and in the end all would be worth it, because _this_ , this life with Bilbo was what he desperately needed, what he wanted. And he’d do anything to keep it.

Because Bilbo was _everything_.

And with Bilbo at his side and him at hers the demons didn’t stand a chance.

**Author's Note:**

> Some of my thoughts: I think if Bilbo lived in our world, food would still be very important to him/her. Healthy food, good food, yummy food. I do not see Bilbo as being a vegetarian, nor a vegan (no offense). I think Dwalin would eat anything as long as he doesn’t have to eat alone and as long as it is tasty. Green concoctions aka smoothies or ‘nudes’ can be tasty.  
> My references to coffees are based on the lifestyle from around where I live: very much a place for coffee lovers, even though many also enjoy their cup of tea - myself included. Outdoorsy life is important, one does go for breakfast to the cafe at the corner and smashed avo on sour dough is a thing, as is macramé.  
> And I love sunflowers, especially the miniature kind. I’m growing them in my garden every year.  
> And no, I have never made felt slippers, but I do knit, and I do have an armchair :)


End file.
